


Symphonies of the Silenced

by Silver_setting_sun



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Culture, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Canon-Typical Violence, Council of Worlds - Freeform, Courtship, Cultural Differences, Dancing, Developing Friendships, Discrimination, Drinking, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Heists, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Music, Politics, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Spark Sexual Interfacing (Transformers)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:46:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21996973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_setting_sun/pseuds/Silver_setting_sun
Summary: With the destruction of many of Cybertron’s cities came the loss of culture. The remembrance and access to music was hit especially hard. Now with the war over, Prowl feels the loss of his heritage more than ever. But with the appearance of the first Praxian music recording since before the war, comes new purpose. Nothing heals the pain of loss more than questionable road trips and plenty of Tarnian love songs.
Relationships: Breakdown/Knock Out, Jazz/Prowl, Starscream/Wheeljack
Comments: 18
Kudos: 50





	1. Solo

_Praxus (1.5 million stellar cycles before the war)_

Prowl stretched his doorwings, pulling them higher than where they normally rested on his back. Content, he tilted his helm up, taking in the glimmer of Praxus’s lights in the depths of the night cycle. Enforcer work took the entirety of his day cycle, but Prowl found he didn’t mind. The work was rewarding, and walks back to his habsuite were peaceful. The dark thinned the number of mechs on the street, allowing Prowl to gaze upon the beauty of his city. 

An EM field brushed his, and Prowl reset his optics at the alarm in the foreign field. A blue Praxian across the street was giving him a strange look. Prowl gave his doorwings an inquisitive flick. The Praxian brought a servo up to his face, tapped his intake, then pointed to Prowl. Prowl repeated the action and found to his surprise, a delicate curve on his lip plates. Quickly he dropped the smile, careful to keep the embarrassment out of his field. He nodded to the Praxian in thanks, and hurried on, not wanting to ponder his discourteous actions. The sooner he arrived home, the sooner he could play the sound file he’d purchased that morning on break. He could upload it to his console and remove it from his personal files to make space. 

Half of the music files uploaded on the console wouldn’t fit into his files, but the overindulgence made Prowl feel complete. The ever changing vibrations of music always served to relax his processor. It slowed down the tac-net, making it easier for the other systems to return to optimal operation. His collection of music was everything.

**  
  
**

_Praxus (current day)_

Praxus was not the same. Logically, Prowl knew that statement made sense. The city could never be physically the same after its destruction. Buildings served different functions, new building materials were being used, roads were now needed in different locations and sizes, and the mechs were not the same.

_The mechs were not the same_

Praxians no longer ran Praxus. If anything, Praxian frames were nearly extinct. Aside from Smokescreen, Bluestreak and himself, Prowl hadn’t seen any other similar frames in the city. It shouldn't have been as distressing as he found it. The war was over. The Autobots had won. City states everywhere were being rebuilt, colonies were returning, and a new government was constructed from scratch. It was an achievement of impressive magnitude, but Prowl couldn’t find true satisfaction in it. His tac-net pulsed insistently, pushing calculations at him.

Potential escape of target = 

Protocol 10001 85% 

Protocol 10002 76.2%

Protocol 10003 55%

Protocol 10004 61.4%

Protocol 10005 54.7%

Protocol 10006 93.4%

Protocol 10007 21.5%

Protocol 10008A 3.6%

Protocol 10008B 1.1%

Protocol 10008B then. With a sigh, Prowl picked up a datapad and began to fill out the fields. If he let the tac-net run at 100% capacity for the next cycle, he could have all the calculations for the enforcer unit in charge of this operation. With a sigh, Prowl rewrote most of his processor energy to the tac-net, grimacing at the painful pulses it sent. This could keep Barricade off of his exhaust pipe for the foreseeable future. And wouldn’t that be a blessing. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Apparently, nothing could keep Barricade off his exhaust pipe. Maybe Barricade just lived in his exhaust pipe. 

“You’re firing me?” Prowl repeated, incredulous. 

“No,” Barricade, said, optics still trained on the datapad held between his servos “I’m retiring you.”

Prowl felt his lip plates begin to slide up, forming a dangerous snarl. “It doesn’t work like that, Barricade'' he growled. “You need me!” 

Barricade slammed the data pad to the desk, optics sparking white with barely contained fury. “I’m in charge not you” he spat. Abruptly, Barricade’s anger dissolved, transforming into a smarmy grin.

“Look, I’m going to level with you here, Prowl.” Barricade stood and walked around the desk to stand by prowl. “The citizens of Praxus don’t trust you. Hell, no one on Cybertron trusts you”. 

The smile never left Barricade’s face. “Most importantly, with all the slag you’ve pulled no governing body trusts you. As the enforcer captain of Praxus I need to be in good standing with the council. You having any sort of power or rank here jeopardizes that.” 

Prowl’s doorwings rose indignantly. “I’ll always have power” he proclaimed. His tac-net was sending him messages now, rapid-fire. All of them were calculations of which arguments would stop Barricade from removing his enforcer status. “You think the best tactical mind this planet has produced won’t figure out how to influence things from the outside,” Prowl hissed. “You think I don’t have friends in high places?”

“I think friends is an overexaggeration,” Barricade mocked. “I don’t care where you go or what you do. All that matters is that you not work in my jurisdiction. That’s how I get... favors.” 

The tac-net was still sending data. The sensation throbbed. It hurt. Schooling his features into a courteous blank expression, Prowl turned and walked to the door.

“I thank you for your service,” Barricade called after him. 

**  
  
  
  
**

_Polyhex (1.5 million stellar cycles before the war)_

Jazz found when referring to Polyhex, scrapheap summed up the city quite nicely. It was hot, dirty, violent and isolated. The production plants sent smoke and grit billowing into the air. Bots with questionable merchandise strutted around looking for customers with no fear of persecution. Leakers lined alleyways, making it hard to tell the dead and functioning apart. But despite the inherent cruelty of Polyhex, it had a soul that was hard to miss. It could be seen in the beautiful markings mechs got painted on their plating. It was in the bustling and smiles of shoppers. It was in the beautiful music that filled the night. The soul of Polyhex danced in the spark of every Polyhexian. It made Jazz want to ignore the question of where the bodies disappeared to. 

**  
  
  
**

_Polyhex (current day)_

Polyhex was not the same. After reconstruction, the streets were clean, the air was cool and clean; the infrastructure was outstanding. Most importantly, Polyhex’s soul was brighter than ever. Walking briskly, Jazz found himself humming along to an old Polyhexian tune. It was bright and winding with a quick melody that slightly dodged expectation on every repeat. Jazz took a turn down a narrower stretch of road, still humming. Cybertronians dotted every street corner, every walkway, each road and highway. The idea that Polyhex was now a city worth traveling to still astounded Jazz. A glorified wasteland become travel destination. Reaching his stop, Jazz entered the small building tucked behind a popular bar. The music shop was a recent and exciting discovery. The shop was tiny and poorly lit, but stocked to the top with sound files, disks, drives and more. The femme who owned it was a newcomer from Velocitron: a sleek green and black speedster with some of the fanciest helm décor Jazz had ever seen. At the chime of the entry bell, she looked up and nodded at Jazz, already used to his presence. Jazz browsed the shelves and datapads of the shop, searching for any new merchandise. He ran his digits over the hard drives until he found what he was looking for: a small aged hard drive with miniscule white glyphs on the side.

“Hey, Phaseblast,” he called, “this one new?” 

Phaseblast lifted her helm and squinted at the tiny device.

“Yeah, just got that one today. Some Bot from Caminus dropped it off earlier today so I’m not actually sure what’s on it.” She walked to the counter. “Doubt it’s anything good with how beat up it is. You interested?”

Jazz purchased the drive for a mere seven shanix and began the short drive to his apartment, the drive tucked securely into his subspace. Once at home, he dropped into a comfortable chair next to the berth. He opened the dataport in his arm, and plugged in the drive. 

Nothing happened. A klick passed, then two klicks, then three. Frowning, Jazz pulled out the drive and inspected the connector. It was slightly rusted and had a bit of a strange shape, but was fully intact. Jazz took another look at the connector’s shape. The end was round as if it was supposed to fit into a processing po- Jazz shook his head in exasperation

“‘Course that would be it,” he muttered. The thing did look pretty old fashioned. It was probably designed to upload files to a memory file instead of opening directly. Jazz activated his systems, opening the small port at the base of his helm. Music files for the processor port were rare nowadays, but all the more reason to be curious. He leaned forward in the chair and slot the drive smoothly into place. 

Immediately the sensation hit him. A million vibrations in every overwhelming note. Every sound hung in both his audials and sensors. They coursed through his frame, running from helm to pedes, sticking in his sensor horns, wheels and back struts. It was incredible, intense, euphoric. The sound danced down and out of his plating, making him feel as if his frame was stretching to catch the notes. It was an experience that Jazz thought he would never have. It was the sensation of a Praxian melody. 

Dumbfounded, Jazz settled into his chair. The stories of the indescribable pleasures of the music were no joke. Praxians had always highly valued their culture, to the point of excluding outsiders. Not that Jazz had wanted to be included. Praxians were always a strange bunch. A group of haughty, hollow fraggers. They never smiled, never showed emotion for that matter. And they clearly disapproved when other mechs so much as cracked a smile. Tickets to live Praxian music were never widely available. Recordings were even harder to come by as shops refused to sell recordings to non-Praxians. Before the war, Jazz hadn’t had much of an interest, despite the stories. If mechs weren’t willing to share their music, why celebrate it. There were plenty of other genres and artists to praise and listen to. And after the war it wasn’t possible to hear the famed art form. Praxian music and culture had died out, disappearing with the destruction of Praxus and slaughter of its people. 

Jazz felt his armor rattle as another series of notes played. For seven shanix Jazz had unearthed one of Praxus’s tightly held treasures from the grave. 

As the last part of the song trickled through Jazz’s stabilizer, he sent a quick comm message

::Hey Blue, got a favor to ask:: 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**  
  
**

Retirement hurt a lot more than it should have. It had only been two cycles since his forced retirement, and Prowl was at a loss. 

He sat on a stool at the kitchen table, wincing every few klicks. His tac-net was working in overdrive and Prowl found he couldn’t slow it. With every random thought came an equally random and pointless calculation. Each calculation was successively more irritating and painful to compute.

Chance of regaining career in = 

5 Stellar Cycles 0.0001% 

10 Stellar Cycles 0.0001%

15 Stellar Cycles 0.0001%

20 Stellar Cycles 0.0001%

25 Stellar Cycles 0.0001%

30 Stellar Cycles 0.0002%

**  
  
**

Prowl eyed the bottle of engex in front of him. He never liked drinking. It was a risk that didn’t lend itself to any clear objective. High grade made mechs lose their inhibition, and display their emotions to a frighteningly improper degree. The fact that it was early in the day cycle didn’t make the idea any more appealing. But then again, Prowl was the only one here. 

**  
  
**

Chance of regaining career in = 

1 million Stellar Cycles 0.00029% 

2 million Stellar Cycles 0.0003%

**  
  
  
**

Prowl grabbed the bottle and popped off the top. He took a swig of the dark pink liquid, grimacing. The high grade was tart with a bitter aftertaste, but the numbing feeling that it would bring was welcome. 

War was miserable: Full of death, hate, violence and difficult choices. But Prowl found peace to be just as miserable. Maybe, there was less death, but Cybertron was still full of hate, distrust, violence, tough decisions and… loneliness. 

_Well_ , thought Prowl, taking a drink, _maybe that last one is exclusive to me._

Being the Autobot head tactician and SIC hadn’t bought him any friends. Prowl did what he had to do for the Autobot cause- for their victory. He calculated the numbers, sacrificed what and who he needed to. He planned necessities and contingencies behind his comrades' backs. He’d done his part and accepted the reputation that came with.

_Emotionless drone_. Prowl swallowed another mouthful. 

The words never hurt in the way he expected. Prowl took a long swig of the high grade. The insult didn’t bother him. The memories of Praxus the insult stirred did. 

“Hollow Fraggers,” was a common descriptor of Praxians back then. Outsiders always mistook the cool expressions for disdain. They never looked for the other signs. Prowl dragged a servo down his face plates. Praxians were the warmest, most compassionate mechs he could think of. The memory of friendly EM fields buffeting against his doorwings pulled a giggle out of Prowl’s vocalizer. He brought the bottle to his lips and frowned when no liquid passed into his intake. The bottle was nearly empty. Resetting his optics, Prowl giggled again, then paused. He really was overcharged. The only thing that would enhance the numbness was music. Prowl stood up from the kitchen stool, grabbed a second bottle of engex from the cabinet and stumbled into the hallway. 

**  
  
**

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The trip to Praxus was quick and pleasant. Transport was one of the most impressive outcomes of the rebuilding effort. Shuttles were reliable and fast between cities, even the struggling ones like Altihex and Kaon. 

Bluestreak met Jazz outside the transport, pulling him into a firm squeeze. Jazz laughed, happily returning the embrace.

“How are ya Blue?” 

Bluestreak pulled away from the hug, giving Jazz a bright grin. “It was pretty normal until some strange mech commed me, raving about some amazing discovery.” 

Jazz chuckled sheepishly. “Sorry bout that. Was just excited, ya know?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Bluestreak gestured for the other mech to follow. “Come on, I know the perfect place to catch up.”

The perfect place, turned out to be a fledgling communal crystal garden. The crystals were clearly recently planted, but neat and well cared for. In a couple hundred years or so, Jazz reckoned the crystals would be a twining mass twice his size. The gardens would probably become a travel destination. They settled on a bench tucked into a patch of budding Lysken crystals and Jazz told Bluestreak about the drive he’d bought. 

“So that’s why I contacted you,” he finished. “If anyone knows where to find any more Praxian music, it would be a Praxian build. Plus, you were forged in Praxus and lived there a good while before the war.”

“Jazz,” Bluestreak started, vocalizer hoarse. “I’m not the best mech for what you’re asking.”

Jazz cocked his helm in confusion, but let Bluestreak continue.

“Yeah, I’m Praxian,” Bluestreak continued words beginning to speed up, “but I’m not _Praxian._ ” Bluestreak’s vocalizer glitched as he reset it. “My mentor and a lot of my old social circle were Iaconians. Because of that I wasn’t deeply involved in all aspects of Praxian culture.” Bluestreak’s words bled together as he talked faster and faster. “You could ask me a hundred questions about Praxus’s culture and I probably couldn’t answer the majority of them, least of all about music and-”

“Whoa! Slow down there!” Jazz interrupted. “Don’t stress it Blue. You don’t gotta know everything. It’s cool.” 

Bluestreak took a deep vent to calm himself. He lowered his helm, optics dimming. “Sorry.” he said, “Guess I just didn’t realize how much I missed out on till it was gone.”

They sat in silence for a breem or two before Jazz stood abruptly. “Don’t worry about it, Blue. How bout I send you a copy of that drive and anything else I find?”

Bluestreak’s optics lit up, hope clear on his faceplates. His doorwings gave a little bounce. “Yeah. Yeah that sounds good.” There was a moment's pause before Bluestreak brightened further. “You know,” he said pensively, “you might want to check with Prowl. He’s a lot older than me and probably knows more about that sort of thing.” 

“Ol’ Prowler huh?” Jazz gave a strained smile. “Sure there’s no one else? The mech’s a little hard to deal with, and I’d rather not.”

Bluestreak laughed. “Never knew you to shy away from a challenge Jazz.” Bluestreak stood up from the bench. “The only other Praxian build I can think of is Smokescreen, and he’s much younger than me. I doubt he’d know more than Prowl”. 

“Suppose you’re right,” Jazz muttered. “You got his address or comm frequency? Pretty sure the one I’ve got is outdated”. 

Bluestreak nodded. “I got his address, but word of advice. Don’t rile Prowl up. He’s dealing with some slag right now”.

Jazz raised an optical ridge. “More than usual?”

“Well, he got kicked off the force by Barricade a couple cycles ago, so I’m going to say yes.”

That got a wince out of Jazz. “Damn, that’s gotta be hitting him hard.

**  
  
**

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Judging by the sound coming out of Prowl’s apartment and the sheer volume of the sound, it was indeed, hitting him hard. Going off the yearnful lyrics and the long, deep, powerful notes, it was from Tarn. Jazz listened for a moment longer, holding back chuckles. Prowl was playing a Tarnian love ballad. A Tarnian love ballad, at an audio-splitting volume, during the late groons of the night cycle. 

Shaking his helm at the absurdity of it, Jazz knocked on the door. After a few klicks with no response, Jazz knocked again, louder. This time the sound of someone slowly making their way to the door reached Jazz’s audials. The sound of stumbling pedes quickly turned into the heavy thunk of a frame hitting the grounded, followed by a string of impressively creative expletives. It took an embarrassing amount of time before the sound of stumbling returned and the door slid open. Inside the doorframe stood a very overcharged Prowl. His blue optics were hazy and the Praxian leant heavily on the entrance.

They both stood staring before Prowl spoke. The blasting music drowned out the Praxian.

“What?” Jazz asked. Prowl’s lip plates moved again, and Jazz frowned. Either Prowl’s faceplates moved abnormally when he was overcharged or Prowl was saying something about turborabbits. 

_Yeah,_ Jazz decided. _This ain't gonna work._ Deciding to try something different, Jazz made an aborted step into the doorway, then looked expectantly towards Prowl. Prowl’s optics focused slightly in recognition and he stepped aside, welcoming the mech into his home. 

**“My spark is yours and to reach you I'll raze the rusting sea,”** the singer bellowed

Without waiting for Prowl, Jazz followed the music. The source of the din came from the living space in the back of the apartment. It was small and spartan with bare white walls. The only furniture was a lone console in the corner with a couch next to it. The room was also surprisingly messy with countless datapads strewn around haphazardly on the floor. Striding up to the console, Jazz quickly turned it off and relished the silence.

Prowl stumbled in after him, one servo braced on the wall, optics still hazy. “W-why didju turn it off?” he slurred

Jazz shook his helm good naturedly. He grabbed Prowl’s shoulder and roughly guided the other mech to the couch. “It was a touch too loud, my mech. Sides’, didn’t think Tarnian jams were your style” 

“They’re pretty,” Prowl mumbled before collapsing into the chair.

“Pretty?” Jazz asked, incredulous. “If that’s what you want to call them. Now stay here. I’ll go get something to help sober ya up.” Jazz exited the room, snagging a datapad from the floor on the way out. 

Prowl’s apartment was easy to navigate. The rest of it was as empty and boring as the living space, with only the basics of furnishing. Jazz rummaged through the kitchen until he found a couple of energon cubes in a cabinet. Although having completed his search, Jazz hesitated to return to the other room. Prowl would undoubtedly be less fun to deal with sober. 

Instead, Jazz eyed the datapad. He didn’t know why Prowl had so many datapads or why they decorated his floor, but Pit was he curious. Jazz activated the device and was immediately met with- Jazz recalibrated his optics. It was the distinctive scrawl of frequencies and notes: a song. It was music Jazz had never seen or heard before. Almost absentmindedly, he began to hum the song. It was fast paced and pleasantly bouncy. The sound crescendoed and fell repeatedly with bursts of stylized static topping off each peak. It was audio catching and almost sounded like a mix of Polyhexian style and something else Jazz couldn’t place. As quickly as it began, the song ended. In the middle of building into the tune, it cut off, unfinished. It was incomplete, as if still being writte-

Jazz set the datapad on the table, suddenly feeling like the worst kind of voyeur. 

**  
  
**

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Prowl really did hate drinking. Sober, Prowl couldn’t think of many situations where he’d invite Jazz into his habsuite. But of course, overcharged, Prowl had thought differently. Jazz was friendly enough, but Prowl had worked closely with the mech during the war. He’d seen a lot of disturbing jobs Jazz had completed. He’d read the reports and approved the mission plans. Likewise, Jazz knew Prowl’s most despicable actions during the war. Now that the war was over, and their shared cause no more, Prowl wasn’t sure where Jazz’s loyalties lay. It was unnerving. Prowl liked Jazz, but he certainly didn’t trust him. He was quietly confident Jazz possessed similar feelings. But here he was, slumped next to Prowl on the sofa, sipping from an energon cube. 

“So, Blue suggested I talk to you,” Jazz finished, swirling his cube. 

Prowl’s optics followed the motion of the energon. “I could tell you about Praxian music, but I couldn’t tell you where to get it.” Prowl tapped his chin in thought. “Praxian music died with its people.” 

Jazz let out a vent of frustration. “Clearly not,” he drawled. I’d bet you anything there are more recordings out there like the one I bought. We just have to find them!”

“We?” Prowl asked in disbelief.

“‘Course!” Jazz crowed. “You know Praxian music better than me. Pit, I hadn’t heard it till I bought the drive. Plus, never knew ya were a music enthusiast. And now that I know and need help, no way I’m gonna let you say no.”

Prowl watched Jazz’s optics drift to the datapads on the floor. His face fell a little

“Mechs would be more inclined to give a Praxian song to a Praxian frame than me.” Jazz said, bitterness tinting his words.

“Besides.” Jazz’s optics darted back to meet Prowl’s. “This is an opportunity we both know you can’t throw away.” 

  
  



	2. Scherzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of a fruitful partnership.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter. Enjoy!

Jazz had stayed the night, much to Prowl’s surprise. Out of courtesy, Prowl had offered the berth, but the other had insisted otherwise.

“Are you sure,” Prowl asked. He waited for his tac-net to finish its calculation before finishing. “You would sleep eighty-seven point eight percent better on a berth than a couch.”

“It’s just one night,” Jazz assured him. “I’ve recharged in worse places.” 

Even with the comfort of the berth, Prowl found recharge difficult to come by. He couldn’t stop wondering what Jazz was planning and his tac-net kept sending him data. Calculations about where they would be most likely to find more recordings. Even if the probability of locating more music was miniscule, Jazz was right. Prowl knew he couldn’t pass up the chance of finding the remains of Praxus’s culture. The calculations kept coming: a pulsing vibrant pain. 

The tac-net was an ever present, constant, irritating pain. The system had been present nearly as soon as he’d finished deep coding. And still, the system felt foreign- like it hadn’t been integrated correctly. 

Eight more calculations came his way and Prowl vented in frustration. It was times like these he wished it possible to turn off the tac-net. The idea of quiet in his processor was unthinkable. It was impossible. 

_ But then again _

Was it impossible if it had never been attempted? Afterall, he didn’t have the schematics. Those were destroyed with his mentor and Praxus. The thought had never actually occurred to Prowl. While the tac-net caused extreme discomfort, it had always served a purpose important enough to overlook that discomfort. First, enforcer work, then the Autobot cause. Now was there anything left? It wasn’t as if Prowl could return to enforcement. No, the tac-net was useless now, and that made the pain more noticeable than ever.

As if sensing the danger in his thoughts, the tac-net stopped. Prowl took the chance and slipped into recharge.

The day cycle came as fast as it had left and Prowl found himself trailing behind Jazz in the shopping district. The moment Prowl onlined and left his berth, Jazz had practically dragged him from the apartment. 

“Did some research while you recharged,” Jazz explained. “There’s a shop that specializes in antique datafiles. I think it's our best bet!”

Prowl was a little perturbed that Jazz hadn’t included him in the research. He also wasn’t too happy about being out this early in the day cycle. He could have used a morning cube. 

The store was expectantly nondescript. It was of average size, blocky and a dull grey color. The simple glyphs painted above the door read, “Buy Datafiles.”

Prowl raised an optical ridge at the other mech. “Looks a bit...underfunded.”

“It’s an antique shop,” Jazz retorted.

The interior was just as unimpressive as the exterior. The walls were the same grey. Empty shelves and merchandise cases filled the store. Clearly the shop hadn’t been around very long. 

The mech at the counter lit up at the sight of them. He was a small and a flier by the look of his wings.

“Welcome to the Grand Datafile Emporium!” The mech spread his arms is some sort of awe-inspiring gesture and Prowl found himself holding in a snicker. There was certainly nothing grand about the shop.

“What can I do for you fine mechs today?” the shopkeep asked. 

Jazz walked closer to the counter. “My friend and I were looking for any old Praxian files you might have.” 

The shopkeeper's excitement died immediately. The confident grin fell off his faceplates but quickly returned in an attempt to save face. “We have plenty of other interesting files,” he said nervously. “We’ve got files from Iacon, Tarn, Uraya, Hele-”

“Sorry, but that’s not what we’re looking for,” Jazz interrupted.

The shopkeeper gave them a disappointed look before sighing. “We had some Praxian files a while ago but they’ve since been bought.”

Jazz’s visor brightened. “Really? Any chance ya got the name of the guy?”

The shopkeeper shook his helm. “No,” he admitted, hope bubbling in his optics. “But if you sign up for a membership, I could alert you if something interesting comes up, say, more Praxian files or possibly a sale.” 

“Why not,” Jazz said, sauntering up to the counter. “What do I have to do?”

The Shopkeeper held up his arm. There was a screen wired into the plating of the limb. “Just enter your comm frequency.” The mech guided Jazz through the process. “This is the same equipment used for transactions so your information will be perfectly safe.”

Prowl watched Jazz’s grin grow impossibly wider as he plugged an arm connector into the device. His tac-net told him there was a 99.8% chance that Jazz was committing some illegal act. 

They exited the shop with a ridiculously happy mech bidding them goodbye.

“So what did you do?” Prowl asked

Jazz’s grin stayed firmly in place. “What makes ya think I did anything, mech?”

Prowl gave the other a flat stare and Jazz chuckled

“I reversed the connection,” he admitted. “Cause it was the same thing he uses for purchases, the transaction history is all there.” Jazz tapped his arm where the connector compartment was. “And if you know what you’re looking for, ya can decipher the buyer information.”

“So you know who bought the music?”

“Yup!”

“Sounds illegal.” 

A look of contemplation replaced the grin on Jazz’s face. “I...don’t think it is actually,” he bit out. “Definitely was before the war, but I don’t think the law’s been reinstated.” 

“Semantics,” Prowl declared with a wave of the servo.

The grin returned. “That’s what I’m best at. Sides, aren’t ya a little curious ‘bout who we need to talk to next?” There was no response. “Spoiler Sport,” Jazz muttered. “Fine, it’s Swindle”. 

Prowl nodded in satisfaction. “Now was that so hard?”

Jazz narrowed his optics at the other mech. “Can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.” 

  
  


\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Probability of arrest = 

65.4%

  
  


“What you’re proposing is illegal.”

“Duh!” Jazz continued typing on a small datapad. 

Prowl’s doorwings hiked up indignantly. Instead of participating in illicit behavior, why don’t we just ask around? It’s probable Swindle has been seen around. It is his job after all.”

Jazz gave Prowl a disbelieving look. “Didn’t you try to kill the mech or something?”

Prowl stared holes through Polyhexian, but Jazz continued.

“You think anyone who does business with Swindle would tell  **you** where he is? Last place I know he was squatting was in Iacon. And you think anyone in Iacon would trust you enough to tell you anything, especially without the enforcer status?” Jazz shook his helm. “Naw, we’re doing it my way”.

Prowl vents grew in volume. “I already knew that. By we, I mean you. You can ask around. Illegal actions are unnecessary.”

“Who says I’m any different,” Jazz said, still typing into the datapad. “Just because I’m more liked than you doesn’t mean I’m more trusted”. 

“The longer you do this, the more your probability of arrest increases,” Prowl begun. “Right now it’s at Sixty-six poin-” 

“Oh, cut it out,” Jazz interrupted. “Percent this, percent that. I’ve always thought you relied on that thing too much. It’s a pretty impressive piece of tech, and useful during the war, sure”. Jazz met Prowl’s optics. “But how much does it help you now that the war’s over? We both know there’s a chance of me getting caught for this stunt? Why does anyone need the exact calculation?” 

Prowl’s Doorwings rose higher 

“It sure as hell won’t help you much in social situations,” Jazz pointed out. “I worked with you for millions of years. You think mechs can’t tell when you’re waiting for a calculation when responding?”

That statement hung uncomfortably in the air.

Jazz pulled his servos away from the screen and stood up from the kitchen stool. “There! I’ve hacked into Swindle’s account. Says his last purchase was here in Praxus. A few groons ago actually.” He walked to the door and Prowl followed, processor humming in thought. 

Finding Swindle took less than three groons and was complete dumb luck. The small mech was exiting a body paint shop, whistling to himself. Swindle took one look at Prowl, and Jazz swore the color of his paint blanched several shades. 

The mech swiveled on his heels and took off, clearly attempting to blend into the crowd. Unfortunately for Swindle, Jazz had a targeting modification. He locked on to the hustler and gestured for Prowl to follow. 

The chase twisted throughout the city. Ever so often, Swindle would look behind him, then speed up, panic lighting up his EM field. 

Finally, Swindle stopped by a fountain in a crowded square. 

The area was beautiful and Jazz was willing to bet the designer was a fan of earth aesthetic. The square was full of tall crystals that mimicked earth flora, energon stands, and a fountain that spouted clear water instead of energon. 

Swindle leaned against the solid base of the fountain and turned to face them. A large grin rested upon his faceplates, but his body position spoke of nervousness. Even with the assurance of the crowd, Jazz reckoned the mech was feeling a certain amount of anxiety. 

“Hey,” Swindle greeted. “What can I do for you two mechs today?” He glanced a Prowl, then focused back on Jazz, smile fake as it was sleazy. 

“Nothin’ troubling,” Jazz said with an easy slant of the lips.

Swindle’s body language didn’t become any less nervous. “And what does that mean?” he asked.

“You bought some Praxian music files a while ago. Prowl and me were just wondering who bought them.”

Swindle’s body seemed to melt with relief and Jazz could make out the soft whir of cooling fans. “You know I can’t do that.” Swindle’s servos slipped from his sides, and he began fidgeting with them. “Bad for business if I’ve got the rep of a snitch,” he explained, servos gesticulating wildly.

Jazz gave a playful huff. “Come on, Swin,” he coaxed. “You know I always come to you when I need something a little ways out the common market.”

“Yes, and your business is always greatly appreciated. Loyal Customers are always-”

“Be a real shame to lose such a loyal customer, eh Swin?” Jazz cut in, voice smooth.

They stared at each other, and Prowl could sense the unspoken conversation taking place. Swindle broke the silence with a resigned sigh. “Fine. I’ll bend the rules a little for you.” 

Jazz nodded.

“I can’t tell you who the buyers are, but I’ll tell where I sold the files.”

“That’s still pretty vague, Swindle”.

Swindle’s optics dimmed- a sign he was examining some data or subroutine. “What if I told you- no. What if I  **promised** you the buyers are still in the locations I give and will be there for the foreseeable future?” Swindle announced, his grin becoming less forced.

Jazz tilted his helm in interest. “I’d say you still have a loyal buyer and can expect some purchases very soon.” Both mechs grinned and Jazz could feel the disapproval radiating from Prowl. 

“Alright,” Swindle said. “I had three files and sold each in a different city. Sold them in Kaon, Iacon, and Velocitron, in that order”

“Cool.” Jazz nodded at Swindle and then looked at Prowl. “Lets go. We have some travel plans to make!” 

Prowl, who had watched the entire exchange in silence, shook his head. “Head back to the apartment, “ he told the other. “ I have to get some stuff first.''

Jazz looked at Prowl, then at Swindle, then back to Prowl. “Stuff?” he asked with a raise of the optic ridge.

“Stuff,” Prowl confirmed.

“Right,” Jazz drawled. He turned and walked off with a lazy wave. Prowl heard him mutter “Hypocrite” is a strangely amused tone. 

Prowl turned back to where Swindle was eyeing him warily.

“And what do you need?”

“Information.”

“Ok. what kind of information?”

Prowl hesitated, before the request tumbled out of his intake. “I need a guide on Mnemosurgery, specifically mod and processor region manipulation.” 

Swindle immediately reached into his subspace and riffled around for a klick. He pulled out a datapad. “Everythings on a couple files uploaded here,” he announced. “This baby’s got all you need! Everything you just said and more. And let me tell you, you’ll be hard pressed to find anything of this caliber.” Swindle waggled the datapad invitingly. “It’ll cost you a pretty penny.”

Prowl’s tac-net alerted him that an ameatuer Mnemosurgeon job could result in permanent impairment or death. Prowl paid without hesitation. 

  
  
  


\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


Prowl arrived home to find Jazz sitting on the hallway floor, marking up a document of some kind. 

“Transport schedule and map,” Jazz explained before Prowl could ask. Prowl leaned against the wall and slid down to land next to the other. The document was a massive tangle of various colored squiggles that linked together destinations. Jazz had circled the dots labeled, Kaon, Iacon and a square that read “planet transport.” Prowl assumed that was a spaceport- their way to Velocitron. 

Jazz finished making a note in the margins, humming thoughtfully. “Was thinking we could head to Kaon first,” he said, finger tapping his chin. “It’s the closest. We could hit Iacon after, then spaceport is a short drive away.”

Prowl examined the map. Suddenly, his tac-net was making calculations and sending them at him, accompanied by the painful pulses. 

“It would be more time efficient to visit Kaon last,” Prowl pointed out. “While Kaon is physically the closest to Praxus, it also has the poorest transport. The closest we could get before being forced to drive is Uraya. From there it’s at least a three solar cycles trip to Blaster city, which does have transport into Kaon. Iacon’s a straight trip on transport.”

Jazz continued tapping his chin. “Even if we go to Iacon first, we’ll still have to make that trip from Uraya”.

“Yes,” Prowl agreed. “But this is a time sensitive trip. Even if Swindle says the buyers are likely to stay in their location, that is not a definite. Better to cover Iacon and Velocitron first then make the longer trek to Kaon.”

Jazz grunted happily. “Yeah, that’ll work.”

Jazz stood up and stretched, clasping his servos above his helm. “Pack your stuff, Prowl! We’re goin’ on a road trip!”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jazz told him to take the rest of the solar cycle to pack and that they could leave the next day cycle. Prowl had asked about Jazz’s incapability to pack, but the other mech laughed off the concern.

“I travel light,” he said breezily. “All I need is my electro-bass, a repair kit and some backup shanix. And all that fits into my subspace, easy.” 

Now, Prowl stood in his berthroom, painfully aware that a solar cycle was entirely too much time to pack. Currently, he was wondering if there was anything to pack. He’d never felt the need to decorate and it wasn’t like he had any keepsakes to bring. No, all that needed to be brought along were a few datapads and some spare shanix. 

He walked out of the room and simply looked. The walls were bare, the tables clear, the floors unoccupied, the majority of the cabinets vacant except for one or two with some energon cubes.

Prowl didn’t remember it being so uninhabited. It wasn’t like his home before the home had been lavishly over-decorated, but there had been little things that made it... home. 

Pictures of his loved ones on the wall. Pictures of Tumbler, his mentor, his precinct. A thermal blanket or two thrown over chairs. A crystal collection he’d begun on the table- the little things. This house wasn’t a home so much as a base- a location with the basic necessities. 

Probability of survival of home items during war = 

Pictures 0% 

Thermal Blankets 0%

Console 0.000001%

Datapads 0%

Crystal Collection 0.000002%

Prowl sat heavily upon the recharge slab, and rubbed his temple to ease the aching. He reached into his subspace and pulled out the datapad he’d purchased for a good portion of his last enforcement earnings. He turned it on a began swiping through it until he came to the right page. 

“The Logic Processor and its Inner Workings- management of modifications” The chapter read. Prowl tried to read, but his tec-net keep sending him agonizing data packets that made his processor throb. Frustrated, Prowl shut off the datapad, slumping onto the berth.

  
  


\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They set out mid day cycle, hoping to make it to Iacon by nightfall. The trip was fast by flight, but the only transport that went directly to the city was by ground and made several detours to pick up more passengers, slowing the trip substantially.

The transport was spacious and well kept. Each row of seats were made up of two benches that faced each other. There was plenty of space between the seats to accommodate larger mechs and varying kibble. 

They found seats in the third row from the front. Jazz sat down on one bench and Prowl claimed the other so they sat across from each other. The transport began to move, and Prowl looked out the window. He watched the flickering lights of the city as the transport sped along.

Half a groon passed, and soon, the glittering buildings of Praxus dissolved into a vast wasteland: The Inbetween. 

At least that was what mechs had taken to calling it. There was no proper name for the hundreds of thousands of miles of nothing. The Inbetween was the reminder of what Cybertron was: a casualty of war. Endless bounds of land razed by fire, explosives, gunfire and spilled energon. Land nearly devoid of the lucious Cyber flora and mecha animals that filled it before the war. The reminder was there outside of every city. 

“Hey!” 

Prowl started at the suddenness of the statement. He pulled his gaze from the window to look at Jazz. The mech sat, his chin rested upon his fist and a mischievous smile on his faceplates. His right leg bounced repeatedly like a restless turbofox pacing its cage. 

“I’m bored,” Jazz said leisurely. “Let's play a game.”

Prowl said nothing, only stared at Jazz expectantly. Jazz took the gesture for what it was: surrender. His leg stopped bouncing, and his helm jumped out of his servos. 

“You ever heard of I Spy?”

“No. A human game I presume.”

“The best ones are.”

Jazz launched into an explanation of the game and from what Prowl could gather, “I Spy” was an activity built upon humanity’s poor perception of the color spectrum and deduction skills. They played close to thirty rounds, and Prowl found he tired quickly of the game.

“I spy with my little eye somethi-”

“It’s that TechnoHawk carcass.”

Jazz scowled. “How’da know?”

“Because it’s the only relevant thing we’ve seen for miles.” Prowl groaned. “The only think we’ve spied for this entire game is variants of waste and metal.”

“Fine, fine. How ‘bout twenty-one questions? Do ya know what that is?” 

Prowl nodded. Strangely enough, he did know that game. He wasn’t sure where he’d picked up the knowledge, but supposed hanging around humans did that. 

They played for five groons straight. Some of the more memorable answers included Airachnid’s optics, Whirl, and two shanix’s worth of circuit speeders. 

After failing to guess the circuit speeders round, Jazz gawked at Prowl. “Was that a joke?”

Prowl placed a servo to his chassis is mock offense. “Certainly not.”

Jazz snorted. 

Prowl glanced out the window and saw the skyline of Iacon coming into view.

“We’ve got time for one more,” Jazz decided. “You think of one.”

Prowl thought for a klick, then said “Ok, go ahead.”

“Is it organic?”

“No.”

“Cybertronian?”

“Yes.”

"A place?"

"No."

"An object?"

"No."

“Big?”

“Very.” 

Jazz began tapping his chin. Prowl was seeing this habit more and more often. it seemed to be a tic of the mech when he was deep in thought. 

“Anything to do with religion?”

“Yes.”

“Does it have to do directly with the Prime?”

“No.” 

“Is it wide spread?”

“used to be.”

"Is it good?"

Prowl paused. "Define good."

Jazz shook his head. "Let me rephrase that. Is it beneficial to society?"

"It depends on who you ask."

"Do you think it benefits society?"

Prowl's doorwings tucked inward slightly. Jazz tracked their movements, observing and logging the motion. The Praxian looked uneasy.

"Yes," he admitted.

Jazz logged the body language as insecure before responding. “Does it have anything to do with social status?”

“Yes.” 

The logic center of Jazz's processor finished firing and he made his guess.

"Is it Functionalism?"

"Yes."

There was an eerie silence before Jazz began to speak once more.

"Why w-"

**THE TRANSPORT IS NOW ARRIVING IN IACON**

The blaring announcement cut through Jazz's question. 

Prowl got to pedes, faceplates blank but doorwings tucked even farther back. He walked hastily towards the transport doors while Jazz stood to follow. 

It had been a while since Prowl had last been in Iacon. It looked cleaner, bigger and more crowded than he remembered. The buildings were taller- more elaborate than he remembered. Even more so than Praxus. 

He supposed it made since for so much effort to go into Architecture. There were undoubtedly many mechs who wished Iacon restored to its former glory. 

Before the war, Praxus was a beautiful, but functional city. There was no need for excessive decor or design. Praxians were equally as pragmatic. They would have much rathered that shanix be spent on infrastructure. Iacon on the other hand was the definition of luxury. It was the home of the Primes. Prowl felt his doorwings shiver in excitement at the memory. 

Gigantic shining temples made of rare Trolbulum alloy. Towers gilded with gems and crystals. Roads lined with precious metals. 

Iacon now was worlds away from what it had been, but Prowl could see the effort being put in to better the city. 

"Guess we'd better find a place to stay," Prowl heard Jazz mutter. 

They ended up finding a small hotel in Iacon's western section. The room they rented was small with two berths, two side tables, a sofa, a holographic communicator and a separate room with the wash rack. 

Jazz claimed the berth on the left side of the room, plopping down onto it. “Pretty cozy ey, Prowl?”

“If cozy is your idea of underwhelming.”

Jazz chuckled. “And people say you don’t got a sense of humor. Could use a window or two though.” He checked his chronometer. “It's getting pretty late. Wanna go stretch our legs a bit?” 

Prowl’s tac-net supplied him with the information that going for a walk would be ninety-seventy percent more beneficial to his legs than lounging around in the room.

“Are we going somewhere in particular, or just walking?”

Jazz shrugged. “Was thinking we explore the city then hit Maccadam’s later on.”

Prowl’s doorwings flicked up in alarm. “I do not think I’d be welcomed there.” 

“Right.” Jazz lazily slid out of the berth, falling effortlessly into a crouch on the floor. “There’s plenty of other bars in the city. We’ll just find a different one.” With that said, Jazz strolled to door. It slid open, and he gestured for Prowl to leave first.

Soon, they were walking down the Iaconian strip, gazing upon towers, temples, houses, shops, and restaurants. Prowl didn’t see it necessary to go into any of the establishments, but apparently, Jazz saw it differently. 

He dragged Prowl into shop after shop, never to buy, only to browse. The entire time, Jazz spun conversation after conversation. Ninety-five percent of the time these conversations amounted to nothing.

“What lamp do you like best?”

“I know if I had the chance-”

“If you’re so smart name one.”

The discussions went nowhere, but Prowl found himself enjoying them. He’d never had this kind of interaction with anyone, even before the war. Talking was always a means to an end, no matter how pleasant it was.

He talked to his coworkers and civilians before the war to do his job. He talked to fellow officers and soldiers during the war to better their odds at victory. He talked to mechs after the war to ensure Cybertron’s success. 

With Jazz, this didn’t apply. There was no point to debating how far Ratchet was able to throw a wrench, and yet here they were. It was strangely invigorating. 

Their conversations became like the tide, ebbing and flowing but always moving. Prowl lost track of time and the sky was suddenly dark. 

The nearest bar was an average looking joint with a blazing neon red sign that read, “Point Zero.” The inside was spacious with plenty of tables, chairs and booths. It was half full of mechs, allowing Jazz and Prowl to easily find a seat. 

A waiter came by and took their orders. Prowl ordered a simple glass of engex. Jazz gave Prowl a wink and told the waiter to surprise him.

The bar gave off comfortably dim lighting and the soft chatter of other mechs only added to the ambiance. 

“We never got to finish our conversation on the transport.” Jazz tapped his fingers, waiting for a response.

Prowl’s doorwings tucked back.“We were playing a game, not having a conversation.”

Jazz’s fingers continued to tap. “Well, how about I make some conversation? You said Functionalism was beneficial to society. I’m just curious, It’s not a very popular stance nowadays.”

“Not now, it isn't.”

“But it was once, and you haven’t changed your mind since.”

Prowl nodded. He’d hoped this discussion would never take place. His stance on functionalism tended to ostracize him even more from society. He usually never spoke of it, but Jazz was very perceptive. It really was a shame. He enjoyed Jazz’s company and in one discussion he would likely lose it.

“It was a common belief for Praxian frames. We are all cogs in this great machine. Everyone has to do their part to keep it running.” Prowl paused, catching Jazz’s optics. The other mech didn’t look ouraged or offended or any of the reactions mechs usually had.

He just sat there, listening intently. 

“I and most Praxian frames believed functionalism to be good when used correctly. The Functionalists were too harsh in their beliefs. While alt forms can be related to function, there are other factors. A hauler alt might be perfect for manual labor, but that is not all they should do. That hauler might be gifted in painting the most beautiful frame detailings. And if they are they should be able to do that instead of or in addition to manual labor. With that extra function, the hauler has bettered the economy and become an even more useful cog.” 

Prowl trailed off.

Jazz pursed his lips in thought. “That’s real interesting,” he murmured. “I never thought ‘bout it like that. Never even considered there could be levels of functionalism.”

The waiter arrived with their drinks, setting them down on the table then leaving to attend to other customers. Jazz’s drink was a tall thin glass with layers of different colored engex ranging from green to purple to orange. 

Jazz took a swig of the drink and licked his lips. “Man, that's good!” he proclaimed before taking another drink.

Prowl sipped his own drink and stared at Jazz in wonder. The mech showed no judgement towards him. He was open and fair, waiting for Prowl to explain himself. That was more than anyone else had done.

Without his permission, Prowl’s doorwings fanned out and up as far as they could go, exposing themselves to Jazz.

The sound of music beginning to play cut Prowl’s thoughts off. It was mournful and the lyrics were sung with vibrations and sorrow in each glyph- Tarnian.

Jazz sighed. “Really?” He set down his glass. “I’ll never understand why mechs like these songs.”

Prowl gave the other an amused glance. “Tarnian love songs are a craft. The singer must have the ability to vibrate their vocalizer for every glyph and the capability to switch seamlessly between Old Cybertronian and Neocybex.” 

“I’m not saying it isn’t impressive,” Jazz cajoled. “They’re just long and cheesy”.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Prowl admitted. “I personally love them. They hold a lot of significance for me.”

“You gotta tell that story some time.”

They lapsed into silence letting the song fill the void. Somber lyrics about death and meeting again soothed Prowl’s reeling tac-net and he relaxed, taking another drink of engex.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night, Prowl dreamt of old Praxus. He was a newspark once again, under the care of his mentor. Crosswitch had always been a good mentor if a little distant. He was a stern silver Praxian frame with blue detailing. 

He was a high ranking enforcer, and his job was the only reason he’d been entrusted as Prowl’s mentor. Prowl’s tac-net made him a special case.

The dream was of a familiar incident. The day Prowl’s tac-net activated. The details of the event were disturbingly vivid. The pain and confusion of something foreign lighting up in his processor. The overwhelming amount of data clogging his other senses. The anguished helplessness on his mentor’s usually emotionless features.

He remembered Crosswitch drawing him into a hug. It was one of three hugs he’d ever received from his mentor. Servos ran up and down his back, soothing him.

He remembered Crosswitch whispering into his audios.

“It’ll be ok. The tac-net designers said you’ll grow into it soon, and then it won’t hurt.”

“Remember, you are a cog. This pain will increase your use.”

“It’ll be ok.”

Prowl jolted online, his tac-net alight with calculations. It was just like when he was young. The data was bombarding him, making his pain sensors scream. He whimpered, then slapped a servo over his intake, trying to muffle the sounds.

_ It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts  _

The pain gradually came to a halt. Prowl vented deeply then looked across the room. Jazz was still in recharge, undisturbed by Prowl’s outburst. 

Crosswitch had been incorrect. It never got any better. He never grew into it. It wasn’t ok.

Prowl pulled the datapad from Swindle out of his subspace.

He turned it on, and began reading until he reached the section titled, “suppression”.

He spent the rest of the night reading it, ignoring the searing pain in his processor.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next three solar cycles were spent in a blind search. It was fun, but also infuriating. They visited music shops, file shops, and antique shops- Nothing. 

They were getting desperate. Desperate enough that Jazz dumped a pile of fliers next to Prowl on the sofa and said, “Pick one.” 

Prowl grabbed the top flier and brought it closer to examine. It was an ad for a concert playing in Iacon. He handed the chosen flier to Jazz.

“It’s a possible lead,” Jazz explained. “Music enthusiasts attend concerts. We need to get into that scene and see if anyone knows anything.”

“That sounds good.” Prowl got up from the sofa. “When is it taking place?”

“Two solar cycles from now, so more time to search some shops.”

Jazz watched as Prowl’s doorwings came out and up. They’d been doing that more and more often. He wasn’t sure what it meant, or if Prowl was aware it was happening. It seemed to be a subconscious thing. Likely a Praxian thing he didn’t understand and thought it best not to mention. 

The two solar cycles passed with as little progress as the first three. They explored the city and its shops in the day cycle and frequented Point Zero in the night cycle. They chatted about music, hobbies, and various random topics. Occasionally they delved into Functionalism, during which, Prowl made his vast knowledge of politics, philosophy, history, and religion known. 

A topic that should have been awkward was easy, informing, and thought provoking with Prowl. And the smaller conversation were no less enjoyable. 

Jazz learned Prowl liked to compose songs, he used to collect crystals and really hated iron shavings in his energon. In turn, Jazz spoke about his burgeoning career as a musician, shenanigans he’s gotten into as a newspark and the cyberdog he’d owned before the war.

The cycles quickly passed and soon, it was the night cycle of the concert. They walked to the north side of Iacon where it was taking place in a dome roofed theater. Prowl bought their tickets at the booth, and the two of them entered. 

The room they arrived in was a lobby. There was a snack counter and mechs milling around, waiting for the event to start. 

“Jazz, is that you?”

Both mech turned to see Windblade making her way over, Starscream and Wheeljack close on her heels. 

Prowl averted his optics. Of all the mechs he didn’t want to see, Starscream and Windblade ranked pretty high. 

“Jazz,” Starscream greeted. “I didn’t know you were back in Iacon.”

Jazz pulled out a friendly smile. “Only for a few more solar cycles. Me and Prowl are on a road trip of sorts.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Starscream gritted out. “Interesting company a mech of your status keeps”.

“My status?”

“Yes, you know. Influential, respected, personable. I’m surprised that someone like you would travel with someone so-”

Windblade scrambled to smooth over the situation. “Yes, very interesting company! How  **have** you been Prowl?”

Prowl was taken aback by her politeness, but after all, Windblade was a diplomat by trade. “I’m doing fine,” He said simply. “I’m certainly looking forward to the concert.”

“Aren’t we all,” Starscream said vaguely. “I hope they play something with a little class, otherwise this whole trip will have been a waste.”

Wheeljack rolled his optics. “C’mon, Star, you enjoyed the last one I picked out. It’ll be fun.”

Jazz got the distinct impression Starscream was a music snob. 

As if on cue, the lights of the lobby flashed, indicating the concert’s start time was approaching. Wheeljack grabbed Starscream’s servo. From what Jazz could see he held it firmly, but with enough slack to allow the other to break away if wanted. 

“We have reserved seating,” Wheeljack explained. Then the two set out together towards their seats. 

Jazz looked at Windblade expectantly, but she just frowned. “Starscream didn’t reserve me a seat. I have to find one just like everyone else.”

They ended up sitting next to each other in the same row. Jazz sat in the middle with Prowl on his right side, closest to the aisle, and Windblade on his left.

The group playing called themselves Sync. They weren't good, but they weren't bad. If anything they were just kind of forgettable.

Midshow, Windblade started a hushed conversation with Jazz. 

“You looked surprised to see Starscream here,” she said

Jazz shrugged. “Didn’t peg him as the musical type, but it kinda makes sense. Screamer always did like the finer things in life. Probably loves the fancier shows."

"Definitely," Windblade agreed. "The other night I was staying late at work when I heard this music. It was coming from Starscream's room and was the strangest and most incredible thingI'd ever heard! It was like I could feel the song on my wings."

Jazz felt Prowl tense beside him.

"Really? That sounds amazing. You said it was coming from his quarters?"

"As far as I could tell. No one's allowed in there except Starscream and Wheeljack."

"They make an odd couple," Jazz murmured.

Windblade smiled affectionately. "They work in a strange way. Wheeljack is Starscream's conscience and Starscream keeps Wheeljack on his toes. They balance each other out. And believe me, we'll need that tomorrow."

"What's happening tomorrow?"

"Big party." Windblade settled further back into her seat. "A get together for politicians to rub elbows. Starscream's been planning it for orns."

Jazz hummed in acknowledgement and turned his attention back to the stage, processor spinning with ideas.

By the end of the show, Sync had played twelve songs, none of which Jazz really remembered. 

It was all Iaconain sounding with a boring reverb droning on in the background. Jazz hated to admit it, but maybe Starscream had a point about the "class" of the music. 

The audience filtered out into the lobby. Jazz could see Starscream and Wheeljack walking, Starscream visibly complaining. Wheeljack seemed good natured about it and even amused about the whole thing.

"Alright, alright," Jazz heard Wheeljack laugh. "I'll admit, my pick wasn't so great this time."

The idea that had been stewing in Jazz's processor finished. He made his way towards the couple. 

"How'd you two enjoy the show," Jazz asked once in earshot. 

Wheeljack snorted and crooked his thumb at the seeker. "Not up to this one's expectations, apparently."

"Like you found it any better," Starscream shot back. He turned to Jazz. "And what did you think? You are a musician after all."

That confirmed Jazz's suspicions. Starscream wanted Jazz to like him. Jazz was well known and respected among autobots, neutrals and decepticons. Starscream wanted to capitalize on that.

He could play that to his advantage.

"It wasn't all that impressive," Jazz said. "If anything I think the reverb made it worse."

Starscream sneered. "Is that what that awful sound was? Absolutely dreadful."

Jazz nodded encouragingly.

"You know," Starscream offered. "I'm hosting a party during tomorrow's night cycle. Big event. You should come, I'm sure a lot of the guests would love to see you." 

_ And there it was _

Wheeljack's optics bore into Jazz. The polyhexian could tell the other mech knew what he was doing.

"I'd love to," Jazz said. "but I can't just leave Prowl alone."

"He can be your plus one." The statement looked like it physically pained Starscream to say. He then pulled out two titanium strips out of seemingly nowhere and gave them to Jazz.

"See you there," Starscream said, then left with his partner. Wheeljack waved goodbye. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Prowl couldn’t recharge. His tac-net wouldn’t let him. They had agreed to finalize a plan in the morning, but the instability gave Prowl’s processor the opportunity to propose countless scenarios. His tac-net then did the calculations, and here he was, kept awake by the pain of those calculations.

  
  


Chance of failure = 

Direct entry  99% 

Forced entry  95.5%

Holomatter disguise 87.9%

He needed to recharge if they stood a chance of devising a plan and then successfully executing it.

_ Maybe that was the solution _

Prowl got out of the recharge slab and made his way to the room’s wash rack. He shut the door behind him and sat on the cold floor. 

_ Chapter 32: Many aspects of the logic center can be dismantled temporarily. This is known as suppression. _

Prowl opened his subroutines, then delved into his deep coded programs.

_ Self-suppression is an easier task than that of an outsider suppressing the area. First, the user must locate the desired portion of the logic center. _

Prowl found the tac-net without issue. Carefully, he amplified the connection- a basic function, then quickly rerouted power use to his emotional center. The connection sparked uncomfortably in his systems before abruptly shutting down.

_ Changing the powerstream when the area is in maximum use will short circuit the area, putting it out of use for a limited amount of time. _

There was silence. No calculations, no data packets, no pain, only calm. Blessid, beautiful calm. 

With no processor ache, or fear of pain, Prowl could think freely. A plan formed in his processor. There, sitting on the wash rack floor, Prowl took a datapad and wrote out a plan. When he was finished he came into the main room, starting Jazz online.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked groggily.

Prowl made his way to the other and dropped the datapad on the berth. “I’ve got a plan,” he said confidently.

Jazz sat up, completely awake now. “You do? Let's hear it then.”

“We need to get upstairs to Starscream’s quarters, but there’s no way to do that on the inside with everyone watching,” Prowl explained. “So what if we did it from the outside? We’ll both get to the party, and socialize until it looks appropriate for me to leave. Since you’re Starscream’s personal guest, You’ll be expected to stay.”

Jazz winced at that.

“When I’m about to leave, I’ll send you a ping on your comm. That’s the cue for you to use your signal jammer to prevent anyone from noticing me. I’ll climb the tower to Starscream’s quarters, find the harddrive and copy the file. The we can upload it to a seperate drive.”

“I like the way you think, but when you say climb-”

“We’re gonna need some Magna-clamps,” Prowl clarified.

Jazz laughed. “I love it!” 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


The party was taking in The Ruler of Cybertron's tower. Or more accurately, Starscream's place of work, makeshift home, and base of operations. A line of mechs stood waiting for the doorman to check their invite status and allow them in.

In Prowl's opinion, the party was an excuse to garner political support. He recognized a few leaders and ambassadors from both cybertron and off world. And going off that, it was likely the rest of the guests all carried some sort of political weight.

They merged into the back of the line and Prowl found himself wincing. There were so many mechs. Their fields and expressions and chatter melded into one overwhelming force on his sensors. 

He shut off his optics for a moment and recalibrated his sensors, dampening them on his doorwings. Gradually, the overstimulation receded, leaving Prowl to watch as the number of mechs in front of them decreased.

He glanced over at Jazz. The mech was surprisingly quiet. Prowl had expected the other to make meaningless conversation, or tease him, or muse outloud, but no. 

Jazz just stood there, silent. His optical visor made it look like he was staring straight ahead, but Prowl knew better. After working with the mech over the course of the war he recognized Jazz in his element. Jazz was observing, logging and planning.

The line kept shifting. The mechs in front of them shrunk while those behind grew. And before long, they were at the front of the line. 

Prowl didn’t recognize the doorman, which meant he was most likely a NAIL or previous colony dweller.

They showed their titanium invites and the doorman nodded at them, stepping aside to allow them to pass. 

The room was teeming with mechs of all shapes, sizes and color. Tables full of Energon, Engex, Oil cakes and other foods had been set up around the room. 

Each table was draped in long red and black table cloths that somehow ended in a flourish. The walls had been painted an obnoxious yellow bordering on gold. Enormous banners with grey geometric designs were hung up around the space. In the middle of the room was a perplexingly huge model of Cybertron. And to top it all off, the floor was waxed with enough vigor to make it gleam. It was so shiny it kind of hurt Prowl’s optics. It was, in Prowl’s opinion, a very Starscream-esque room. 

It was only after Jazz grabbed his arm to pull him along that Prowl realized he’d been staring for a socially unacceptable amount of time.

“C’mon, Prowler,” Jazz murmured. “First things first, we gotta make some small talk.” 

Jazz dragged him deeper into the crowd and Prowl grimaced. His sensors had reset, and the sensory input was beginning to overwhelm him again. He tried to keep his reaction to a minimum, but Jazz noticed and gave him a curious look. 

“Not a fan of crowds?” 

Prowl recalibrated the sensors once more. “Too much input". 

Jazz's curious gaze turned sympathetic. "We can stop by a clinic later if your audio receptors need a tune up," he offered

"It's not just an audio issue," Prowl said, doorwings drooping

“Well, we can stop by anyway,”

“It’s not something that can be fixed,” Prowl said in a tone that brokered no argument.

They made it to one of the tables that appeared to be covered in energon goodies. Jazz snagged a chrome-alloy pie and a flute of highgrade. He lifted the glass towards Prowl in a toast and said, “Start mingling,” with a flourish of the other hand.

Prowl walked off into the crowd. If his tac-net had still been functional, he was sure it would be making nonstop calculations. 

Everywhere mechs were interacting- chatting and laughing. It was busy and distracting enough for no one to notice him. Maybe “mingling” wasn’t necessary. Prowl looked around, trying to find where Jazz had gone off to. Instead, he found Rattrap. 

The mech stood there, monitoring the crowd. His optics swept across the room before they landed on Prowl. Their optics met and Rattrap quickly turned his helm in a poor attempt to pretend he hadn’t been looking.

_ Correction,  _ Prowl thought.  _ He’s monitoring me. _

It seemed the mingling would, unfortunately, be necessary. 

Prowl searched the crowd, trying to identify an entryway into a conversation. He was so focused on this task that he didn’t notice the approaching figure until a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. 

He whipped around and was greeted by blue plating and friendly yellow optics. 

“Prowl!” Stardrive greeted cheerfully. In lieu of a smile, Prowl filled his EM field with warmth, pushing it towards her. 

Stardrive looked pleasantly surprised before her faceplates scrunched up in concentration. Prowl felt her field buffet clumsily against his. The happiness and gratitude in it were a little murky, but it got the message across. 

Prowl hadn’t seen the femme in vorns, but from what he could tell, she looked great. Her plating was undamaged with a fresh coat of paint. There was a giddy smile stretched across her face and Prowl could practically see the excitement wafting off of her. 

“It’s been so long!” Stardrive rambled. “The last time I saw you was in Metroplex after taking Shockwave into custody!”

“Yes,” Prowl agreed with no small amount of surprise. During the time they spent together, Stardrive had been a hardened, skilled warrior. Now, she spoke with warmth in her vocalizer and the earnest curiosity. In the absence of conflict and struggle she acted more like a newspark. 

It was refreshing. It had been ages since someone besides Jazz acted so friendly and trusting towards Prowl. 

It felt wonderful. 

Now all he had to do was chat with Stardrive until the plan could be carried out. And that was no chore.

"How are you doing Stardrive?" Prowl asked earnestly.

The femme beamed. "I'm great!"

The wheels mounted on her shoulders spun with her joy. "I've been traveling from city to city, trying to get a feel for Cybertron and Cybertronians in general".

Prowl's doorwings bounced and he felt approval sing in his circuits. Stardrive getting to meet and understand her own race was no doubt beneficial in a myriad of ways. 

A server walked by holding a tray of glasses full of highgrade. Prowl waved the server over and took a glass. 

Now was the best time to begin the plan. 

He turned back to the conversation, but found Stardrive's attention wasn't on him. Instead, she stood, staring at his doorwings in naked fascination. 

Prowl drew them down, closer to his body and out of sight. Immediately, Stardrive's attention turned back to him.

"Y'know," she said, "I've been traveling for awhile now and I've never seen anyone with back kibble like yours."

And wasn't that an unintentional slap to the face.

"I'm a Praxian frame," he explained patiently. "The only places we were made were hotspots in Praxus."

"That's amazing," she gushed. "So there are so little of you because there was only one hotspot? Were you all kind of related then, like organics? Did you have your own customs- Oh, like a special language?"

Prowl felt a rush of melancholy. All Praxian frames had been like an extended family of sorts. Not nearly the same as organic reproductive and familial dynamics, but there had been a sense of familiarity and security. 

"Not quite," he said. "I suppose there was a companionship of sorts, but we weren't a small group by any means. We were just reduced in number during the beginning of the war.”

Stardrive's optics widened in realization. "Praxus was the city that-"

"Total destruction, yes." 

Stardrive’s frame straightened; she looked down, shoulders tensed. She was the picture of shame. 

Prowl hated the tension in her frame. He hated the forceful cutoff of her mannerisms. He hated being the one to make her close herself off.

“It’s fine,” he said softly. “You didn’t know.”

Stardrive looked up from the ground, but her frame stayed tense. 

“We did have many customs unique to us,” Prowl continued. “Would you like to see one?”

Her frame started to relax.

Prowl fanned his doorwings out so as much of them as possible could be seen from the front. He then brought them up as far as they could go, finishing the motion with a small but noticeable smile.

This, Prowl said, "Is how my people greet those close to us."

Stardrive's EM field lit up with blinding happiness and gratitude.

Prowl lowered his doorwings, slipping out of the greeting. "Now, why don't you tell me about your travels."

Stardrive launched into a story, and Prowl listened, nodding along. He sipped his highgrade, and before long, was waving down the server for another glass.

And here was when plan went to hell. 

Prowl would later chalk it up to his systems trying to adapt to the absence of the tac-net- a misfiring circuit in the logic center. 

Regardless of the reasoning, Prowl couldn't defend his pride

He forgot to engage his FIM chip.

Five glasses in and one groon later, Prowl wasn't quite sure what he was doing. Everything was hazy and this femme was talking to him.

_ What was her name again? Star… Star… Move... road... travel… Drive!  _

Prowl frowned. Stardrive. Her name was Stardrive. How had he forgotten the name of his friend? His friend that he was talking with in this… place.

Prowl looked around. Where was he again? 

_ A Party?  _

_ Party... Stardrive... highgrade... Jazz...the plan! _

Prowl shook his helm, trying to clear the fuzziness from his processor. 

The sudden movement shocked Stardrive out of telling her story. She looked at him in confusion. Her features morphed into concern as Prowl swayed slightly in place. 

“iis late...I gots… to go,” Prowl slurred. 

He turned and started wading through the crowd, ignoring Stardrive’s calls. Prowl felt as though he’d been dunked into a tank of water. Everything was slightly blurry. His audio receptors were inhibited by the highgrade, resulting in the sounds of the party melding into one seemingly faraway buzz.

Prowl pinged what he was sure was Jazz’s comm and continued his stumbling towards the exit. 

The cool night air hit him unexpectedly. Prowl didn’t remember reaching or even opening the door.

The line had disappeared, all of them having been accepted into or turned away from the party by now. The doormech was still there, standing alert next to the entrance. 

Prowl froze. He needed a distraction. The next entire bream was dedicated to Prowl formulating the most sophisticated and convincing excuse his overcharged processor could conceive.

Prowl turned to the door mech and said with conviction, “mm drunk...goin’ home.”

Satisfied, Prowl walked off. Thankfully, he remembered the direction he was supposed to go. He came back around one of the larger buildings to reach the back of Starscream’s tower. 

The tower was beautifully and coviently designed. The base of it was a circle made from four semicircles. This shape continued many stories, flattening out at the top. Where the end of each semicircle met the next, was a sizable, shadowed indent. There were four of these indents; Prowl chose the back left one. 

He stumbled into the indent, reached into his subspace, and pulled out two pairs of magna-clamps. He clumsily strapped one to each of his hand and knee servos. 

Prowl placed his hand servos against the building. The magna-clamps stuck.

Prowl paused. He felt like he was forgetting something. His tac-net remained strangely quiet. Sighing, Prowl dismissed the thought and began climbing. 

  
  


\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jazz loved parties. They were full of excitement, joy, music, dancing and pretty mechs. That being said, Jazz didn’t think this was a party. It was political schmoozing with a lot of highgrade.

He’s split from Prowl about a groon ago and Jazz was desperately waiting for the signal. 

Currently, he was chatting in a circle of mechs. It’d started out as him talking to a small group. Gradually, more mechs joined in until Jazz found himself the unwilling center of attention. 

He didn’t recognize any of them, but all of them seemed to know him. They asked him countless questions about himself, what he liked to do, his musical career, how he liked Iacon. Frankly, it was exhausting. 

Every word from these mechs had layers to them. Jokes were never just jokes. They were either jabs at political figures veiled in pleasantries, or references that actually referenced something else with word play. As much as class supposedly didn’t exist on New Cybertron, these mechs reminded Jazz uncomfortably of the nobles of the golden age. 

Jazz found himself wishing he could talk to Prowl instead. The mech had interesting opinions and meaningful things to say. He had a deadpan sense of humor Jazz could appreciate. And as much as Prowl was a schemer, he’s always been oddly transparent with Jazz. No games, no implications, no ulterior motives. 

“I see you’ve met my guest,” a screechily recognizable voice purred. 

Starscream strolled up, planting himself next to Jazz. He greeted each of the mechs by name and began the schmoozing. 

It couldn’t have been that long before an alarm went off. Only, it appeared that no one noticed. It was shrill beeping at an insanely high frequency. It was so high, Jazz realized, that only him with his modified audios could hear it.

Abruptly, Starscream stopped talking. The smile gradually fell from his face and he looked towards the back of the room.

_ He can hear it too _ , Jazz thought. 

Starscream apologized and excused himself from the group. A red and purple mech filled his place in the conversation.

Jazz took the opportunity to comm Prowl. 

::Prowl do you know what’s goin’ on? An alarm’s goin’ off.:: 

Prowl’s groggy voice came back through the comm.

::What’s…. Did….you...say?::

::Are you drunk?::

Prowl didn’t respond and Jazz resisted the urge to facepalm.

::Where are you right now?*::

::Doing the plan.::

Jazz felt the face palming urge increase. 

::You're climbing right now? Why didn't you ping me like we planned? You probably set off an alarm::

::I did ping you,:: Prowl sent, voice petulant. 

Jazz didn't dignify that with a response. The poor mech had probably tried to ping him, but either sent the message wrong or not at all in his drunkenness. Jazz chuckled.

He should have been absolutely furious at Prowl, but couldn't find it in himself. The whole situation was too ludicrous. And if they did get caught it wasn't as if the charges would be that serious. Jazz could see the headline now.

**Former cop and musician accomplice break into Ruler of Cybertron's home to download music file**

Yeah, Prowler sure made the night more interesting. The chuckles grew as an image of Prowl drunkenly making his way up the tower passed through Jazz’s mind. There was no way he’d let Prowl forget this anytime soon. He was going to tease the pit out of him. 

But before he could, Jazz needed to clean up the situation. Using his signal jammer, Jazz blocked the alarm frequency then looked around. Finally, he caught sight of Starscream. The mech was on the other side of the room by the stairs, looking unsettled by the sudden stop of the alarm. 

Jazz took his chance and swiftly made his way across the room to Starscream. Along the way he commed Prowl.

::I need you to get your aft down here! Screamer’s on your trail::

There was no response. 

_ Well _ , Jazz thought.  _ Looks like I’m distracting him as long as possible _

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


Prowl made his way up the tower at a slow and steady rate. Wind whipped around his frame. It jostled him every once in a while, but the magna-clamps stayed strong. 

The effort has sobered him enough that he could see clearly again, however, he still felt hazy and his limbs were heavy. Prowl had clumsily flailed up the first few floors, but around the sixth floor he’d gotten into a rhythm or sorts. 

Release arm, arm up, latch, release leg, leg up, latch.

Prowl passed another floor, and huffed in annoyance. He was almost to the top where Starscream lived, but it was still taking so very long.

As he made it closer to his goal. Prowl began to hear something. It was the soft lilt of a song drifting down. 

Finally, Prowl made it to the top window. Surprisingly, it was open.

He deactivated the magna-clamp on his right hand. He brought the hand up to the window frame and grabbed tightly. Prowl repeated his actions with the left hand. He then deactivated the magna-clamps on his knee servos simultaneously and quickly hauled himself through the window.

He landed on the floor hard. His back slammed into metal and his doorwings creaked in protest. 

Prowl stayed on the ground, letting the pain pass. The music was still playing and Prowl thought it was possibly Iaconian in origin. After a klick or two, Prowl brought his servos under him and forced himself to sit up. 

His gaze fell upon two familiar figures. They were sitting in chairs next to a console, both pointing a blaster at him. 

“Prowl?” asked a very confused Wheeljack. 

“Yeessss?” slurred Prowl.

Wheeljack lowered his blaster and gestured for Chromia to do the same. 

“Primus, he’s wasted,” Chromia muttered. 

“What are you doing here, Prowl,” Wheeljack asked, keeping his speech slow. 

Prowl blinked blearily and Wheeljack sighed. “Didja want something to sober up or you want to engage your FIM chip?”

Prowl nodded and spent too long trying to find that particular area of his components. He spent another long moment trying and failing to activate the chip. After a shameful amount of time, he finally got it to work.

Prowl felt a whirring in his systems. A click of his cooling fans, then the feeling of haze being cleared from his processor. Prowl sobered up, and in the highgrade’s place came mortification.

Wheeljack took a step back and waited for Prowl to get to his feet. “Now,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

His suppressed tac-net wasn’t giving him much in the way of advice, but Prowl was pretty sure the truth was the best course of action. 

“I wanted access to Starscream’s music collection,” he admitted.

Chromia grunted in disbelief and Wheeljack raised an optic ridge. 

“When we were at the concert, Windblade mentioned some Praxian music Starscream had. Jazz and I wanted to copy the file.”

There was a moment of silence before Wheeljack started laughing. “You mean to tell me,” he chortled. “You heard a rumor from Windblade who’s never been to Praxus much less a connoisseur of its music-”

Chromia made a sound of protest.

“You went off that rumor, and instead of asking Starscream or me, decided to climb up the side of the tower, drunk out of your processor and ignoring the sensor alarms in a half-assed break-in attempt?”

“You make the plan sound a lot less impressive,” Prowl said, firmly avoiding eye-contact.

“There was a plan?” Wheeljack asked incredulously. 

“There was, but I was too drunk to follow it.”

Wheeljack laughter grew louder and even Chromia let out a snicker. Prowl crossed his arms and bore the humiliation.

The laughter died down. Wheeljack began walking towards the console. “As hilarious as that is, what made you think Starscream is the music fan?”

Prowl frowned. “These are his quarters. Are you suggesting otherwise?”

Wheeljack tapped the console and the music shut off. “Star’s only ever listened to music because of me. He’s never been that interested, but uses it as an excuse to take me to concerts and that sort of thing. When I found that Praxian recording he let me play it from the console all I wanted. It was just so beautiful.”

Chromia nodded. “It truly is a wondrous piece of art,” she agreed “Wheeljack invites me every once in awhile to listen to some music with him. I think I’m just a replacement for Ironhide though,” she mused.

Wheeljack playfully shoved her. “Y’know that’s not true”. Prowl watched Wheeljack reach into his subspace and pull out a harddrive. He held it out towards Prowl.

Prowl took the harddrive, holding it reverently. “You’re giving this to me?” 

Wheeljack shrugged. “It’s a copy of the original. I had this one made for Ironhide. I was gonna give it to him when he got back to Iacon, but I can just make another.”

Prowl tucked the harddrive in his own subspace. “Why, he asked. You could have just thrown me out.”

Chormia snorted. “I sure would have.” 

Wheeljack shoved her again, then locked optics with Prowl. “Despite everything you’ve done during the war and what you’ve done to sabotage Starscream, I know you. I consider you a friend, even if you can be shitty.”

Prowl winced at the human expletive.

“I talk to Ironhide often. Not many remember but he’s Praxian, sparked and raised. One of the things he talks about is the music of Praxus, how unique it was. It’s clear he misses it. It’s a piece of him. And when I found the recording, I’ll be honest, I didn’t think of sharing it beyond Ironhide and my loved ones. But that music is just as big a piece of you as Ironhide, and I have no right to keep that from you.” 

The area around Wheeljack’s optics softened in what could only be a smile. “I would ask that you to share it with any other Praxians you come across. Praxian framed or not.” 

Prowl nodded, “I will.” And held out his palm. Wheeljack took the servo and the two mechs shook on it. 

It was that moment that Prowl’s tac-net came back online. It wasn’t as painful as it usually was, probably a side effect of the suppression, but the pain was noticeable. The quiet in his processor was over.

“Now,” Wheeljack said. “Let me escort you downstairs so Star won’t blow a circuit.” 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jazz was saved from the awkward small talk with Starscream by a miracle: Wheeljack descending the stairs with Prowl and Chromia in tow.

Starscream watched Prowl with calculating optics, but Wheeljack grabbed his servo and drew Starscream close, distracting him from Prowl and Jazz’s existence. They took the opportunity to quickly leave the building. Their last glimpse of the party was of Starscream pressing a kiss to Wheeljack’s mask. 

As they exited, Jazz whispered, “Did you get it?”

“Yes.”

Jazz grinned. “Good, cause I’m never letting ya forget this.”

They walked to their hotel room, arriving late into the night cycle.

“So,” Jazz began, making himself comfortable on his berth, “Why don’t you give it a listen first. You did all the hard work.”

Prowl shook his helm. “I don’t have a processor port. I’ll have to wait until we get a decent console to hear it.”

“You don’t have a processor port? That a Praxian thing?”

Prowl let himself slump onto the sofa. “No, just a me thing.”

They sat in brief silence before Jazz spoke. “I have speakers ya know. I can play it for both of us.” Prowl looked at Jazz, shocked.

“I mean I don’t have to,” Jazz backpedaled. “If ya want-”

“No!” Prowl exclaimed. The outburst shocked both mechs back into silence. Still silent, Prowl stood from the sofa. He walked over to Jazz and sat next to him on the berth. “I’d love that,” he said quietly. 

Prowl reached into his subspace. He pulled out the harddrive and placed it into Jazz’s outstretched hand. 

Jazz took the drive gingerly from the other mech. He bent forward, and plugged it into the port in the base of the back of his helm. The information took a moment to route to his speakers.

The music began, and for a moment Prowl struggled to find where on Jazz’s frame the music was stemming. 

The song was one Prowl had heard before, but it was no less impactful. Prowl almost let out a keen as the familiar notes ran down his frame.

“Dancing Pistons” was the name of the song. It was deceptively simple. What sounded like one straightforward melody was overlaid again and again, creating a complex series of notes. It was playful and light hearted. The song danced over and through Prowl’s doorwings. The song changed from one frequency to another in half a klick. The change ignited each of his sensors pleasurably.

Prowl leaned closer to Jazz, subconsciously, seeking out the source of the sound. He felt the light pressure of soundwaves and looked down. Between each of the vents on Jazz’s abdomen were thinner slits: speakers.

Prowl glanced up to see Jazz’s face. The polyhexian’s optics were offlined. His frame swayed with the music and every frequency change caused a tiny delighted shiver.

They stayed like that, frames touching just slightly, enjoying the sensation together. 

Maybe it was the warmth wafting off Jazz’s frame, or the pleasant and nostalgic feeling of the music, or the complete and utter safety and security he hadn’t felt since before the war. But whatever it was, Prowl drifted into recharge next to his friend.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The music ended and Jazz onlined his optics. To his surprise, Prowl was slumped over, deep in recharge. Jazz slid off the berth. He maneuvered Prowl onto his back with feather light touches, then looked at the mech.

_ Guess we’re switching berths tonight _

Over the course of a week, Jazz surprisingly found Prowl’s companionship to be enjoyable and gratifying. Despite how well Jazz thought he knew the mech from wartime, Prowl kept finding new ways to amuse and intrigue him. 

And maybe that was the issue. How well could one know another during war? You got to see the deepest most desperate parts of them- the parts clinging to life. But that was usually ugly and only one part of the person. Post-war, you got to see all the other sides bloom. 

In some cases these changes made the mech unrecognizable. It was unsettling in some cases, but in others like Prowl, it felt right. Jazz liked peace time Prowl. 

Jazz’s thoughts slipped back to the music then to Prowl again. It was strange that Prowl didn’t have a processor port. Every single mech Jazz had met possessed one. From the wealthiest noble to the lowest disposable, the processor port was a constant. 

Jazz felt a wave of sadness. The idea that Prowl couldn’t just listen to music on the go was depressing. Making up his mind, Jazz crept out of the room, out of the hotel and into Iacon’s western shopping district. He entered a mod shop. After a lengthy search, Jazz found a simple self-install speaker mod. He doubted Prowl would want someone else poking around in his frame. It was a sleek screen with speakers in it that could be installed shallowly in the plating and wired into the frame.

He paid, returned to the room, and left the mod on Prowl’s side table for him to find in the morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, here's the first leg of their journey! If you enjoyed leave a comment down below, I want to hear what you guys are thinking!!

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love any feedback you guys have! Tell me your thoughts in the comments!!


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